


For the North

by lioness47



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cousin Incest, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Love Triangles, Marriage Proposal, Romance, Season/Series 06, jonsa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-10-26 23:33:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17755619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lioness47/pseuds/lioness47
Summary: Sansa is prisoner of the Boltons, but her plea for rescue succeeds in reaching Jon. In order to save her and take back Winterfell, Jon needs to make a deal with Littlefinger that betrays his own heart.Jonsa. AU Season 6. Unabashed romance, cringe-y angst, and moments that don't go our heroes way.ETA: This fic heavily features an interloper/other men vying for Sansa, as well as major setbacks Chapters 1-3.Juicy Jonsa heats up toward the end of chapter 4. Proceed directly here for fluff & smut.Satisfying comeuppance is promised, chapters 4 and 5.





	1. Chapter 1

The brief flicker of relief in Jon’s stomach was quickly replaced by an anguish that nearly caused him to double over. 

He read the letter once more, standing beside the low fires of Castle Black. 

Sansa, who hadn’t been seen since Joffrey’s wedding, was _alive._ Yet prisoner of the Boltons, married to Ramsey, and, by her own account, subjected to implied horrors that colored the sides of vision an angry red as he clenched his fists so hard they shook. 

There was no denying the letter was by his sister’s hand. 

He glanced up at the large, looming woman who’d brought the message. 

“You’ve seen this with your own eyes?” 

“I have,” Brienne of Tarth answered. “Lord Baelish brought her to the Boltons. We beseeched her to leave his company and travel with us here, but Lady Stark would not be persuaded. Podrick and I have waited by Winterfell for word of her welfare. The news we feared arrived last week.” 

“And you rode North, not South to Littlefinger.” 

Brienne paused, then spoke carefully. “I don’t trust Littlefinger. He may not know what has since befallen Lady Stark, but he did deliver her to the Boltons in the first place.” 

“But Sansa seemed to trust him?” Jon asked.

“She did,” Brienne replied, reluctantly. 

Jon tossed the parchment on the table and sank into a chair. “I can’t lay siege to Winterfell alone. We need the Knights of the Vale if we’re going to rescue Sansa and take back the North.” Jon sat quietly for a moment, staring into the hearth. The flames reminded him of Sansa’s red hair. Then, like a sickening blow to his stomach, the horrific idea came to him that Ramsey might have tortured Sansa with such a fire. Who knew what the scum was capable of? 

Unable to bear even a moment of inaction, he rose quickly to his feet. 

“We’ll ride to the Eyrie, tell Lord Baelish what had happened, and ask him to fight with us. Then we’ll know plain enough where his allegiance lays.” 

But a nagging feeling in Jon’s gut told him nothing with Littlefinger was ever plain enough. 

#

He rode their group hard, stopping only when they needed a few hours sleep or to trade for fresh horses, though Jon found little rest when he closed his eyes and pictured nightly torments upon Sansa. At least Brienne and Podrick didn’t slow him down. 

_I need you to meet me in the Wolfswood,_ he’d told Tormund. _With or without the Vale, we ride to battle with whatever free folk you can rally._

It wouldn’t be enough. They needed men with horses, armor, battering rams, and catapults to take back his home. Whatever it took, he needed to persuade Lord Baelish. 

Bone-tired and filthy, their party arrived at the imposing, rock and iron passage to the seat of the Vale. 

“Who would pass the Bloody Gates?” the sentry atop the portcullis shouted as they neared.

“Jon Snow, of Winterfell, Lady Brienne of Tarth, and Podrick Payne.” Jon shouted back their names, hopeful one of them rang familiar enough to grant passage. 

No reply came and Jon’s stomach sank. They travelled so far, all hopes resting on the support of this army. Would they not even get the chance to speak with Lord Baelish?

With the creak of chains spinning, Jon’s hopes rose. The gates lifted. 

#

“Lord Commander,” Littlefinger greeted Jon in a friendly manner, by the doors of the Eyrie, instead of seated upon the throne-like dias, waiting to be addressed, as Jon would have expected upon first meeting the man he’d heard so much about.

“Lady Brienne.” Lord Baelish saved a special smile for the lady knight, but Brienne kept her face even as she replied curtly, “Lord Baelish.” 

“I’m no longer Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch,” Jon said. 

Littlefinger nodded. “But you command an army of Freefolk, if word is to be trusted?”

Jon was taken aback. “Aye, they wait for my return,” he replied carefully. 

“A raven arrived with a troubling report of your sister,” Littlefinger said, escorting Jon into a side chamber where they could discuss the matter, seated. The edge of his cloak grazed the floor as they walked, and Jon wondered at the choice of long robes on a man, such as he’d only previously seen worn by maesters. 

But here was a man who acquired influence by other means. Indeed, this was no threadbare cloth, lacking embellishment such as those donned by Maester Ludwin or Maester Aemon. Heavily woven, rich fabric lined in dark fur carried the unmistakable message of power. The hint of softness the frock conveyed with its feminine length belied the sharp steel Jon’s gut told him Lord Baelish hid underneath – both literal and figurative. Littlefinger chose his clothing carefully, to ease the comfort of both powerful men or women, as best suited. 

Friend, or foe, as best suited. 

“Come, you must be tired from your journey.” At his words, servants appeared, pouring wine – which Jon waved off – and water, which he eagerly gulped. Plates of mountain goat simmering with small red berries, stewed ramps, and seeded bread were placed before them, but Jon had no stomach for food.

“So you received our report from Castle Black?” he asked. Sending the raven had been a risk, but, if the outcome of their meeting were to be as hoped, he needed time for Knights of the Vale to ready, prior to his arrival. 

“So I have,” Littlefinger replied, speaking in his strange whisper out of one side of his mouth. 

“Then you know why we come,” Jon began. “Help us rescue my sister. Join the Vale to our cause to take back Winterfell.” 

“I would very much like to save Lady Sansa from the Boltons,” Littlefinger began, leaning back in his chair. “I feel a _particular_ grief being the one who placed her there. Only, persuading the houses of the Eyrie to join the fray after so many years safely ensconced beyond the Mountains of the Moon, is no easy task.” 

“But one a man such as yourself would be up to,” Brienne interjected. 

The side of Littlefinger’s mouth twitched. 

“It’s true, I might be able to convince the nobles to go to battle for Lady Sansa, and Winterfell,” Lord Baelish drawled. “And of course, I want to help your sister, for whom I feel a dear affection.” 

Jon felt the “but” part of his agreement coming. And he remembered well what his father said about that. 

“But the Lannisters back the Boltons. Throwing myself against their great power would endanger not only myself, but the entire Vale, for which I am responsible.” 

“What is it you want,” Brienne asked, enunciating each word clearly to leave no mistake that she understood from his little speech a bargain could be made. 

Again, Littlefinger’s mouth twitched. “If I were to risk the safety of my people in the Vale, I would ask an alliance with North in return… through marriage.” 

Jon’s heart raced before his head. Though he didn’t yet grasp the logic of why she was the pawn, he immediately understood that Littlefinger required his sister’s hand, in return for his help. 

“You want me to give my sister to you, in marriage?” Jon asked, partially in disbelief. He shook his head and countered, “If you help us, I can pledge the support of the Freefolk against any Lannister attack in return.” 

“Forgive me, but the word of an illegitimate Stark isn’t enough to assume a risk of this nature. I would bind the North to the Vale through marriage to a trueborn daughter of Winterfell.” 

“Even if I wanted to, Sansa’s hand isn’t mine to give,” Jon argued. “As you said, I’m a bastard, not Lord of Winterfell.” 

Lord Baelish smiled. “Then you have nothing to concern yourself with. I will provide the Knights of the Vale to help your cause, and _if_ there should ever be a time when your sister’s marriage is within your power to arrange, I ask that you grant me her hand.” 

Jon shifted and asked bluntly, “what if my sister doesn’t want to marry you?” 

“I wouldn’t ask it if I didn’t believe I could make her happy,” Littlefinger replied in a whisper. “Sansa and I have grown fond on one another in our time together. Lady Brienne can attest to this herself, can you not, my lady?”

Jon looked to Brienne, awaiting her reply with interest. 

Brienne frowned. Sansa _had_ been attached to Littlefinger when she happened upon them in the tavern, although Brienne didn’t know if Sansa still felt the same. 

“It is true that Sansa seemed to… respect Lord Baelish. In the past.” 

“What if she’s since changed her mind?” Jon asked. 

Littlefinger tilted his head downward, almost contrite. “Well I’d ask that, should you find yourself in a position to bide Lady Sansa to align with the Vale, you will it so. But, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” 

Jon wanted to throttle the man. He was asking Jon to command his sister to marry him, regardless of her desires. Making it a condition of her rescue, and binding him to the oath by the honor of his word. Honor he knew Jon couldn’t betray without breaking confidence with the Vale, and perhaps many other houses in the North. 

“It’s settled then?” Littlefinger asked, though it came almost like a statement. 

“Hold on,” Jon said, looking for holes in the proposed arrangement. “The Lannisters might not care about the Boltons one way or the other. But once they find out Sansa is alive and living in Winterfell, they’ll want her back to stand trial for Joffrey’s murder. No matter what, they won’t let her go, as she’s still married to the dwarf in their eyes.”

“All the more reason for her to become the Lady of the Vale,” Littlefinger protested, tilting his head back, his lips forming an almost snarl as he spoke. “I can keep her safe from the Lannisters here.” 

Jon had no desire to agree, but felt he had no other way, and in reality it was unlikely to ever need discussing again. The bargain rested on his having the power to grant Sansa’s hand some day in the future, and that wasn’t possible. He was no longer Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, he wasn’t even a Stark. He was just a bastard, nothing more. 

And though it twisted his stomach in a funny way he didn’t understand, perhaps it was as the Lady Knight said, and Sansa felt affection for Petyr. She did always want to marry a powerful Lord. Littlefinger had rescued her from King’s Landing, and, though he’d given her to the Boltons, Lord Baelish was coming to her rescue once again. Perhaps he was the happy ending she sought, just like a song. 

The idea pecked at Jon annoyingly, like that little Mockingbird pin Lord Baelish wore, though he wasn’t sure why. 

Jon brushed it aside. His feelings, no, even his _life_ didn’t matter at the moment. More important than any of their lives individually, Jon weighed the future against what might attack from beyond the wall. If the Night King and his army broke south, an alliance between Winterfell and the Vale would best help in the war to come. He could begin there – once they took back Winterfell - then travel to the other houses of the North, to entreat those lords to join him against the Night King and his army. 

“Alright,” Jon said, begrudgingly. “Bring us the Knights of the Vale to rescue Sansa and take back Winterfell. In return, I give my vow that, should it ever be in my power, I will pledge Lady Sansa to you in marriage.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Stand down!” Jon called, straining to be heard over the battle as he intercepted the order to launch another stone. The angle the catapult sat would only damage a turret he needed intact if Winterfell would serve as a haven in the war to come. 

“There!” he grabbed the scruff of whichever foolish soldier manned the weapon and pointed to a section of the battlements he knew were best suited for hidden archers. Archers making quick work of shooting down his men who tried to scale the walls. Out of the corner of his eye he saw another fall to the ground in a scream. 

Jon couldn’t spare the time to ensure the soldiers at the catapult followed his order; he spun and ran to help pick up the back of the battering ram. Someone behind – wildling? Northmen? – he didn’t know - held a shield above his head to help protect from the rain of flaming arrows whizzing by and felling too many for their attack on the gate to be effective. 

“Wun Wun,” he heard from above, before being knocked off his feet and brushed aside like a doll. 

Others crashed beside him, but Jon rolled, stood, quickly dodged an arrow set to hit him square in the chest, then stooped as he ran to pick up a fallen shield for cover. 

Wun Wun wielded their battering ram like a wooden sword, swinging it against the gates of Winterfell. The ram broke in half, front end hanging limp and splintered against the back. The giant tossed it aside and pounded the door with his fists instead, flinching but not falling with each arrow lodged deep into his massive form. 

Miraculously, the door cracked. Jon’s arm shook against the brunt of another arrow hitting his shield and he instinctively turned away and crouched tighter under the wood. 

By the time he lifted his head, Wun Wun slammed the door again and the wooden panels broke open. 

A smart commander would stay back for safety, but Jon never claimed to possess the wisdom of caution, and he was among the first charging through the gates. 

He ignored clash of swords beginning around him. Jon had only one goal in mind, and he knew where to find her. 

Running past the practice yards and charging up the steps to the quarters of his parents, his brothers, Jon held his sword at the ready, kicking open one door and the next, searching each for the room he prayed held Sansa. 

His heart seized when he kicked open the door to Theon’s old room. He found not only a shadow of the man he knew as Theon shaking beside a window, but his sister, bruised, bloodied, and staring back at him with defiance despite her state – 

\- and the blade Ramsey Bolton held at her throat. 

“Hello, bastard,” Ramsey smiled. 

Jon froze. Then he took the smallest step forward and the tip of Ramsey’s dagger pricked Sansa’s neck, drawing immediate blood. She let out a low squeal that made Jon feel like the blade pricked his heart and not her skin. He lowered his sword arm few inches and raised his free hand in a position that signified both surrender and _stop._

“Ah-uh,” Ramsey taunted, lips glistening with the sickness of a madman. 

“The battle’s won,” Jon said. “You’ve lost. Let her go. Let her go and I give you my word I’ll let you live.” 

“Come now,” Ramsey replied. “Why would I do that? I let her go and you may let me live. You may not. I don’t know if you’re a man of your word. But I do know that as long as I have her, you can’t harm me.”

“You’ll never make it out of Winterfell with her as your prisoner.” 

Ramsey sniffed loudly, part snarl. 

“Then we’ll both die here,” he taunted, and moved to cut Sansa again. Before he could slice into her throat, Theon came to life shocked them all when he struck a small knife into the back of Ramsey’s shoulder. 

Jon threw his body at Ramsey and knocked him to the ground, away from Sansa. He climbed on top of the Bolton bastard and pummeled his face with the hardest blows he could manage. Rage created a tunnel vision and he saw only Ramsey’s increasingly bloodied face, heard only the crunch of his fists against bone, teeth. 

Until, “Jon, no,” a soft voice spoke. 

Mid-strike, he stopped. Looked up his sister. 

“He’s mine.” 

Despite their years apart, an understanding passed between them. She didn’t mean, “He’s mine, I’ll spare his life.” She meant, “He’s mine, I’ll deal his death.” 

Yet even with a cold bloodlust in her eyes, she looked so weak. Like without Ramsey to hold her up she might fall down. 

Which she did. 

Jon leapt from the unconscious Ramsey, catching Sansa as her legs gave out. He heard men enter the doorway behind him. Without looking, he ordered, “Fetch the maester. Put him in irons and post guards at all times. He awaits my sister’s judgement.”

Jon scooped Sansa into his arms. She was too light, like a little bird. Jon guessed that she’d been starved, and that in the last moments Ramsey took out his rage in losing on Sansa.

Jon would protect her, he vowed. He would help nourish her body back to health, to match the strength he’d seen flash in her eyes before she fell. 

Without thinking, his feet carried him to his old chambers. Modest, he thought they would have been overlooked by Ramsey or any Bolton commanders Sansa knew. He pushed the door open with his back, and gently lay Sansa on his bed. 

“Jon,” Sansa whispered, bringing a hand to his face as if to make sure he was real. “I can’t believe you’re here.” 

“I’m here,” he smiled, weakly. 

“Ramsey… where is he? Jon, I want to be the one to kill him.” 

“I know,” Jon said, realizing how much his sister changed. She didn’t speak of her bruises, she didn’t cry for help, she didn’t shed a tear. Sansa looked like a cold wind could blow the life from her at any minute, but her face held a ferocity as she spoke only of vengeance. 

“Good,” she replied, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes. The hint of a smile curled her lips. 

Jon’s gaze rested on those lips a bit too long, lost in a wave of an emotion he didn’t know how to handle and didn’t dare name. It was same feeling that rode him as he rode his horses at breakneck speeds down to the Vale, the same one he couldn’t shake since learning Sansa was still alive. 

He shook his head. 

She was his sister and he wanted to protect her. He’d never had a relationship with his siblings as an adult, he was simply unfamiliar with navigating the territory. 

It was natural. Nothing more. 

#

Jon left Sansa’s side only when duty absolutely required it. 

He pardoned Theon for his part in saving Sansa, and sent the Iron born son back to his islands. 

Jon’s mercy and his bravery in battle earned him even more respect from the bannermen, and tales of Sansa’s rescue spread throughout the North so quickly, Jon was sure a song would be written about it. Conveniently leaving out the gore, he’d wager. 

Tormund brought news that Littlefinger had also garnered some newfound glory from the battle, both for bringing the Knights of the Vale into the siege, and for the surprise kill of Roose Bolton. 

“I didn’t think Littlefinger had any skill with a sword,” Jon said, doubtful.

“No, but he has skill with a knife in the back,” Tormund replied. 

Jon nodded. That didn’t surprise him. 

Once Sansa healed enough to walk, Jon took her to the Godswood, or on strolls around the ramparts for fresh air. The cold wind pinked her pale cheeks and tossed her red hair about like ribbons of fire. The intense blue of her eyes sharpened as they surveyed with approval the progress made to repairing their home. 

Together, they reminisced about Old Nan’s kidney pies, and Sansa apologized profusely for “being an ass” when they were younger. Jon laughed to hear her speak so bluntly, and welcomed the change. 

“Lady of Winterfell suits you,” he said, staring down from the East Gate. 

“I’m not the Lady of Winterfell,” Sansa protested. “You took it back.”

“The Knights of the Vale rode for you,” Jon insisted. “It’s yours.”

“It’s both of ours,” she replied, and they didn’t discuss it again, though they knew some agreement for ruling would need to be reached. Eventually. 

The few times Jon wasn’t quick enough, he found Littlefinger had already escorted Sansa to the stables, or the sept. Jon knew Sansa no longer prayed to The Seven, but when he saw his sister smiling as she fed the horses carrots Lord Baelish had provided, the desire to physically stand between them and block Sansa from Littlefinger raged within him. 

“What did you and Littlefinger talk about?” he asked casually, as he and Sansa sat beneath the weirwood tree. Jon hadn’t told Sansa about the deal he’d made. It seemed pointless to further trouble her for nothing, after all she’d been through. 

“You wouldn’t understand,” she replied. 

“Try me,” he countered. "We have to trust each other. We have so many enemies now."

Sansa stared ahead, a faraway look in her eye. 

“How to best deliver vengeance.” 

Jon knew who she meant, of course. She’d been biding her time, waiting to punish Ramsey until she no longer bore scars, at least, none the Bolton boy could see. 

“Do you trust Littlefinger?” Jon asked. 

Sansa considered. “Only in some matters. I’d be a fool for any more than that.” 

About a week after they re-took Winterfell, Sansa felt well enough to join their supper, and Jon couldn’t help his eyes lingering on the curve of her body as she walked into the Great Hall. He quickly looked away, afraid she’d notice, a movement that had become habit. 

Only this time, when he tore his gaze to the wall, he saw Littlefinger leaning up against it, and Jon felt a flicker between irritation and worry, because he couldn’t tell what Lord Baelish saw, or thought he saw. 

#

“We should gather the Stark bannermen here,” Sansa insisted, meeting with Jon and Lord Baelish after their supper. “Have them reaffirm their pledge, declare once more for House Stark, and punish those who betrayed us. Take their castles and give them to other men, loyal houses who didn’t serve the Boltons.” 

“You’re the Lady of Winterfell,” Jon said. “But I don’t think we should punish the sons and daughters for their father’s mistakes, fathers who were only protecting their own when they believed the Starks were all gone.” 

Sansa leaned back in her chair. “And what would you have us do? Let treason go unpunished?” 

“The punishment for treason is death.” Jon replied. “Most of the men disloyal to House Stark have already lost their lives on the battlefield and to be fair, there was never any time to meet with them and persuade them of another option. Not when we needed to attack right away.” 

Sansa pursed her lips and Jon knew that meant she was at least considering his words. He planned to delay calling the bannermen until he was sure he could convince her, but Lord Baelish suddenly spoke. 

“Bringing the other noble lords here could also strike the need for you to have to travel around to them, could it not?” Littlefinger asked in a whisper, looking at Jon. “You said you needed to convince these lords of the threat we face beyond the wall. If we gather them together at once, perhaps you could use that occasion to persuade them of what you say you’ve seen of the dead?” 

Jon had to admit that Littlefinger had a point, and if he didn’t have to travel to the other houses of the North, he didn’t have to leave Sansa alone with this man he’d gone from disliking to despising. 

“Alright,” Jon agreed. “Let’s send ravens.” 

As he walked back to his chambers for the night, Sansa called out to him.

“Jon, wait.” 

He turned back around. 

“You’re good at this, you know. Ruling.”

“As are you.” 

Sansa nodded. She stepped closer, so close Jon caught the impossible scent of her hair, a brisk wind dancing between the flint, the flames of fire. “You’re right. We have to trust each other if we’re going to survive.” 

He tried, damn, he’d tried, but he couldn’t _not_ touch her in that moment. He leaned forward, took her head in his hands, and kissed her forehead for a time longer than brotherly. He pulled back slowly. Glanced down at her lips. For the briefest moment, he leaned back down, almost as if to kiss them, as well. 

He caught himself and stopped, abruptly. Nodded once, as if to assure himself of… something. Without another word he turned and walked back to his room.

#

Jon surveyed the Great Hall, pride lifting his spirits. Northmen _were_ more loyal. Most took his testimony as truth, the few skeptics won over by Ser Davos’s impassioned speeches about what Lord Commander Mormont had seen, and his belief in Jon. While much stock wasn’t put into Wildling word, accounts from their assembled leaders certainly helped the cause a little. 

But as their meeting wore down, Jon was startled when he caught Littlefinger stirring from his favored position by the wall, and taking the center of the room in an unusual move to address them all. 

Jon didn’t like Lord Baelish skulking in the shadows, leering at Sansa, but unease rose within even more when Littlefinger commanded the floor to the other lord’s rapt attention. Jon suspected Petyr set tales ablaze himself of his _great deed_ on the battlefield, or at least fanned rumors in some covert manner. 

“My lords,” Littlefinger began, turning slowly to include even the youngest in his stare. “We’re all standing here today because of Jon Snow. We’ve seen first-hand the glory he can lead us to in battle.” Littlefinger’s voice rose as he orated. 

“We all know Jon to be an able commander and an honest man. I say he is every bit a Stark, as well. The late Lord Stark isn’t here to legitimize Jon, but I knew Ned well, and I believe that if he were here today, he would give his son his name.” 

A chorus of “hear, hear” echoed through the room, and the young Lady Mormont suddenly stood, and proclaimed, “Bear Island knows no king but the King in the North, whose name is Stark!” 

Lady Mormont bent the knee and Lord Manderly followed, “The King in the North! The White Wolf!” 

As the other lords and ladies took up the chant, Jon stood to receive their proclamation, but he was too bewildered to do more than stare. 

Then he caught the glint in Lord Baelish’s eye and Jon had to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from lunging at Littlefinger in front of his guests. 

One step behind, Jon realized what happened. 

His hands balled into barely-concealed fists with the urge to slam them into Petyr’s face, or at the very least, the table. 

Littlefinger played kingmaker by his clever words, obliging Jon to play matchmaker by his honest ones. 

He looked down at Sansa who sat with a seemingly bemused but pleased smile, unaware that they’d both just been outmaneuvered. 

Unaware that with this move pushing him to King, she was a bride for claiming yet again. And it was his fault.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes -  
> -There's mention of past rape, please don't read if this is a trigger.  
> -Conversely, it's a mention only (not the deed itself) as I took some liberties with that past event, but tried to keep it inline with similar Ramsey games in the books, and his delayed/drawn-out torture of others, such as Theon.  
> -There's also a small divergence in the timing of arrivals, ravens  
> -In this chapter, things get worse before they get better!  
> -Uber-angst is coming.
> 
> For gif-y accompaniment to the love triangle, this site - the first and fifth image (not mine, I just appreciate the work).  
> http://rebloggy.com/post/game-of-thrones-my-crap-kit-harington-emilia-clarke-lena-headey-sophie-turner-ma/79256842886

Five days after Jon had been made King, Sansa disappeared from Winterfell, not returning until most of the castle had taken to their beds. 

When she came up the stairs, windblown and wobbling, Jon noticed three things immediately. One, she wore her riding boots. Two, there was a change in her face he believed meant Ramsey Bolton had been taken care of. And three, she was drunk - or worse - and he’d never seen her like that before. 

“Sansa?” Jon asked, rushing to hold her up if she fell. 

“I’m fine, Jon,” she tried to brush him off. 

“I’m sorry, but, you don’t look fine.”

“We rode hard. I had some extra milk of the poppy for the pain.” 

“And some ale,” Jon replied. 

A smile ghosted Sansa’s lips. “I had reason to celebrate.” 

Jon nodded, sure now Ramsey was dead by Sansa’s hand, and didn’t ask for details. She was in no position to elaborate and he didn’t want to push her for more than she wanted to reveal. Quietly, he helped Sansa to her room, realizing more with each faltering step that milk of the poppy and ale didn’t make for a good mix. 

Jon hadn’t told her about his deal with Littlefinger yet. He told himself it was because he didn’t want to trouble Sansa when she’d chosen this time to exact her revenge on Ramsey Bolton. But the truth was, he was searching for a way out. Trying to protect her while bearing the burden himself. 

What really kept Jon brooding in his chambers late at night was the curious fact that Littlefinger didn’t press the matter either. Jon had no doubts that making him King was Lord Baelish’s move to bind Sansa to him. So why didn’t he assert the claim Jon would be bound to honor? 

Sansa immediately sat on the bed, pawing at her shoes. 

“Help me with my boots?” she asked, and Jon knelt to oblige. 

She stood, and fumbled with the ties on her dress. 

“Jon?” Sansa asked for assistance again. 

Jon froze. _There’s nothing wrong with this,_ he told himself. He’d never seen Sansa in her smallclothes before, of course, but he wouldn’t let it get that far. He’d help her down to the shift beneath her gown. Nothing more. 

Jon undid her ties and lifted the black gown over her head, tossing it onto the bed. 

He was about to step back when Sansa turned around. 

_Why did she turn?_

Without realizing he did it, Jon admired the bare skin around her neck, her chest, rising with her breath.

Sansa stared back at Jon and he was too caught up in the moment to care that she looked decidedly _down_ from her height. 

What was she thinking? 

Better yet, what was _he?_

Cursing himself, he forced his eyes to remain up. He was no better than Littlefinger. The last thing his _sister_ needed was another man leering at her. 

He was worse, actually. Like a Lannister. His _sister._ Gods, what was wrong with him? 

“Do you remember when we were kids?” Sansa asked, nostalgia glazing her eyes. “Back then I only thought about what I wanted, not what I had. I wish I could go back and tell myself what an idiot I was. If I let myself dream now, I only want those simple things I took for granted before. A safe home, a family. A husband one day. Watching our children practice with wooden swords in the training yard. Feasting together by the hearth after a long day. Do you ever allow yourself such dreams, Jon?”

“Aye,” he whispered, so close his breath caressed her face. “I wish for the same things.” 

Despite her addled state, Sansa titled her head, flicked her eyes to the side, as if she came to a realization. Had she sensed a tension that surrounded them? Read his thoughts? 

Jon opened his mouth, searching for the right words, when suddenly, Sansa dropped to the bed, declared, “thank you, Jon. I’m tired.” She lay back and closed her eyes. 

Jon sighed and collapsed into a chair in the corner of the room. 

He watched over Sansa as she slept, the thoughts in his head blown about like a storm for the ages raged within. 

By the time the sun rose, he was thoroughly disgusted by himself. Because he couldn’t deny he felt some stirring, a deeper pull, to Sansa. His _sister._

All he wanted to do was ride out of the castle, leave her in charge of Winterfell, and war with his feelings alone. Somewhere south, as far as south goes. He was tired of fighting, and didn’t even know how to begin to wage this inner battle. 

But he couldn’t ride. Not just because he couldn’t leave his people unprotected. 

He couldn’t leave her unprotected. Against Lord Baelish. Or anyone else. 

#

“Jon,” Sansa said, startled as she woke. Instinctively, she pulled the bedding up. 

“How do you feel?” Jon asked. 

“Fine,” Sansa replied, though she didn’t look it. “Why are you here?”

“Don’t you remember?” Jon gave a low laugh, but it was mirthless. “You came home in a state last night.” 

“I – no.” She titled her head, scrutinizing him. “Thank you. For making sure I was okay.” 

Jon tensed, licked his lips. Should he say something about last night… no. He shook his head, to himself. She was drunk, she likely didn’t remember or even notice. 

Jon took a breath, steeling himself. “I have something to tell you about Lord Baelish. I’ll leave you alone to get dressed, and we’ll talk.” 

#

When he finished explaining the deal he’d made with Littlefinger for her hand, Sansa grew quiet. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before,” Jon apologized. “I wanted to find a way around it, but, I don’t think I can. I will protect you though. I will refuse to agree to it when he makes his demand.” 

Sansa remained quiet for another moment, then asked, “Why hasn’t he come to you yet?” 

“I don’t know,” Jon admitted. “But… I have a suspicion.” 

At his hesitation, Sansa pushed, “What is it? Tell me.” 

Jon shifted in his chair and looked at the wall, before forcing himself to meet Sansa’s eyes. 

“I think Littlefinger wants to wait… to ensure any child borne of a marriage is… his.” 

Sansa stiffened her back, lifted her chin. “I see.” 

“I’m sorry. I won’t let him marry you, Sansa.” 

“You have no choice,” Sansa said, letting out a small huff. “Refuse him and word will spread throughout the other lords that your word is no good.” She shook her head. “He’s clever.”

Sansa sat with defeat on the bed. “I suppose it’s a not as bad a match as my last three.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Jon insisted. “I won’t let it happen. I’ll protect you.” 

“No one can protect anyone anymore.” 

Sansa’s eyes took on the faraway look that meant she was considering something, plotting, thinking a few steps ahead. Or so Jon thought. 

“Ramsey didn’t bed me,” she said suddenly, stunning Jon. “I don’t mean to imply that he did it out of the kindness of his heart. Ramsey liked to play games with people. Long, drawn-out games, prolonging their pain. I was… flowering… on our wedding night and he came up with a new idea to hurt me even more. He told me he’d strip me and chase me with his dogs. Have them hunt me, bite me, and hold me down to rape me in the woods. He made me listen to this story night after night, adding details about the pain he’d inflict. Telling me he hoped I’d carry a child from the hunt-rape. He wanted the first time to be a horror he built up, he loved prolonging my fear, drawing it out as long as possible. Sometimes he brought Myranda in while he…” 

Sansa spat the words, part of her sickened, part of her still shaken by the memory, but she drifted off at the end, unable to finish. Every word was an arrow in Jon’s heart.

“He did other things to me, just as bad or worse. It was only his love of playing games that kept me safe in that one way. When he learned of your attack, he didn’t have time to play. Not that that would have stopped him. Ramsey never thought he could lose the battle. By the time he realized it was over, he tried to rape me while he still had the chance, with Theon watching. Only, you burst through the door before he got his breeches down.” 

Jon hadn’t even realized he stood, as if to go to Sansa while she related her awful tale. He didn’t realize it until he sunk back into the chair, head in his hands. 

A horrible mixture of relief and anguish flooded him, just as when he learned Sansa was still alive, but prisoner of the Boltons. A momentary lifting of his spirit, only to be crushed a second later by the realization of yet another horror unfolding. 

Sansa was spared at least one unspeakable torture from Ramsey. He hadn’t raped her, hadn’t even bedded her for the first time. 

But if they couldn’t stop him, Littlefinger would. 

#

“I’m not a little girl, I won’t cower behind your cloak, Jon,” Sansa said, back stiff. 

“Please, just, give me some time to figure out-”

Sansa nodded, dismissing the notion with a wave of her hand. “I know, how to protect me. Do you have a better plan right now? I have nothing to lose and everything to gain by trying the truth.” 

She turned and left, heading directly to confront Littlefinger, certainly at work in his chambers, as usual. 

“Lord Baelish,” Sansa interrupted without preamble whatever letter he’d been writing at his desk, crossing his room and standing above him. 

“Sansa,” Littlefinger smiled. “How lovely it is to see you about this morning. I’d heard that your long ride yesterday had left you in a weakened state. I’m glad that the business of the past is now, in the past.” 

“Jon told me about your arrangement,” she said, blunt as ever. 

The corner of Littlefinger’s mouth lifted, just a little. “Did he?” 

“Yes. And I see no way around this without speaking honestly. No more lies, no more hidden agendas. I want to know what it is you really want, and maybe I can help you… without becoming Lady Protector of the Vale.”

Littlefinger titled his head, slightly narrowed his eyes. She had his attention. 

“I don’t know what you haven’t pressed the matter. Jon thinks-” Sansa stopped, then began again. “I’d like us to be honest with each other, Lord Baelish. If we marry, you will find out soon enough. And if we do not, I lose nothing in revealing it. Unlike Jon, I do not think buying time will find a solution. I know you better than that. I also know that you give nothing without gaining something in return,” Sansa drawled, holding Petyr’s eyes at the last part. He looked intrigued, if she had to guess. Good. 

“In a show of good faith, I will go first.” Sansa paused, then said, “My marriage to Ramsey Bolton was unconsummated. If that is the reason you delay in calling Jon to honor his word in giving you my hand in marriage, it is unfounded. I am not with child. I don’t believe that’s the reason for your hesitation, however. I think you want something else entirely. I ask that you show me the same respect and honesty I have shown you, and tell me what it is you’re really after. You don’t need to force Jon to bind us in marriage.” 

“Is that what you think?” Lord Baelish asked. “What exactly has Jon told you?” 

“That you agreed to send the Knights of the Vale to my rescue only if Jon agreed to give you my hand in marriage.” 

Littlefinger closed his eyes, and when he opened them again he looked pained. “No, Sansa. That wasn’t the way of it.” 

He rose, walked over to her, and put his arms on her shoulders. Sansa stiffened at the gesture, but listened. 

“Jon came to me for help to take back Winterfell and told me of your fate at the hands of Ramsey Bolton, it’s true. I insisted we ride to save you, but Jon agreed only if I promised to marry you and remove you to the Vale. He was afraid that a trueborn daughter of Ned and Catelyn would override his claim, that the Northern Lords would name you the Lady of Winterfell.” 

Sansa didn’t believe Littlefinger and was quickly losing the little faith she had in him. 

“I had hoped that when the other lords gathered, I could encourage them to give Jon the Stark name. That he’d be named Lord of Winterfell and no longer see you as a threat, no longer require us to marry and you to leave your home. But I can see that didn’t satisfy him.” 

A flicker of apprehension rose within Sansa. Littlefinger _had_ tried to rouse the Northern Lords to gather behind Jon, and had been successful. That was true. 

“Men like Jon are often threatened by the power of a strong woman. Imagine how it must be for him, growing up on the outside, always coming up short compared to his brothers. And now so close to not only being a Stark, but equaling and maybe even surpassing Rob as King in the North. To have all that possibly taken away by a girl, by his baby sister…” Littlefinger let his voice trail off. 

Lord Baelish gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “I admit that I would be a happy man if you were to marry me, Sansa. But I would only want you to do so if it would make _you_ happy. That is why I have not spoken to Jon of our agreement. I can see that he pushes the matter, regardless of my attempts to prevent him.”

“You lie,” Sansa replied. Although, inside, a nagging feeling began. 

“I’m sure you’ve noticed Jon acting strangely around you?” Littlefinger asked in a whisper, staring at her as if he could peer directly into her thoughts if he looked hard enough. 

Sansa faltered. “I – no.” But. _Yes._

She shook her head slowly. “Jon wouldn’t betray me.” 

“You could find out for yourself,” Littlefinger prompted. “Ask him about the secret he hides from you. Only, I am sorry, Sansa. You might not like the answer.” 

“Maybe I will,” Sansa declared. “Lord Baelish,” she said, spinning on her heel and leaving.

Did Littlefinger think to sow discord between her and her brother? What game was he playing? She might not fully trust Jon – or anyone for that matter – but Jon would never betray her so deeply. Littlefinger underestimated their bond if he thought she couldn’t speak to Jon openly. They were siblings. And sometimes… sometimes she felt he was even more than that. 

She found Jon in his room, running the whetstone down Longclaw. He tossed the sword onto his desk when he saw her, but Sansa did not speak at first, only studied him. 

“Well?” Jon asked. 

Sansa wore an even expression she hoped he couldn’t read. If she was going to do this, she would do it right. 

“I know your secret. Littlefinger told me.” She felt a bit silly saying it, not really believing he’d do anything other than deny it and allay her fears. 

Jon froze, mouth parted. Guilt crossed his face. And something else too. Regret?

Sansa’s own mouth fell open. _No._ Could it be true? 

The room felt hot, all of a sudden she struggled to breathe. How many people lied to her? Not Jon. Not him too. 

“So, it’s true then?” _Please say it’s not true,_ she thought. 

Jon closed his eyes and scrunched his face, as if in pain, as if wounded. 

Don’t say it. _Don’t say it,_ Sansa begged. 

“Aye.” 

Sansa fought not to crumple to the ground. It was like a string held her up and with Jon’s confession her knees threatened to give out, tossing her onto the floor like a limp doll. 

_No, no, stupid girl. You’re just a stupid girl._

Her breathing came hard and heavy. 

No, she _was_ a stupid girl. No more. She avenged herself with Ramsey, she would do so with Jon. But oh, his betrayal stung worse because he was her kin. He was… Jon. 

Her mind raced, pushed faster by too many emotions at once. Disbelief. Fury. Pain. Then, she knew. 

She would make her move, with the Knights of the Vale behind her. 

Sansa tried to steady her breathing, lifted her chin. 

At least Jon had the decency to look shamed. 

“I hate you,” she spat. 

“I want you to leave Winterfell and never come back. I will marry Lord Baelish,” she declared, stepping toward Jon with a confidence she hoped looked real on the outside. “But we won’t be departing for the Vale. We’ll be staying right here, together. I suggest you run and hide after the wedding. Go to the other houses of North and help them prepare for winter, I don’t care. I never want to see you again.” 

#

Jon would rather relive the day he was stabbed in the heart by his own brothers a thousand times over, than this one day. Her wedding day. 

Sansa refused to speak to him, and what would he say anyway? He disgusted her. So much that she ran to Littlefinger’s arms. 

And, gods, worse than watching. He had to be the one to give her away. 

Jon’s head pounded like a smithy took a hammer to the spot behind his right eye. He drank several horns of ale just to make it to the sept. 

He forced himself to look at Sansa, and his breath caught. 

She wore gray for Winterfell, sapphire blue for the Eyrie, and surpassed in beauty and any woman he’d ever laid eyes on, all the more enchanting because it was a fierce beauty. 

This was wrong. Everything about it was wrong and he was powerless to stop it. What good was being King if he couldn’t have the only thing he really wanted? 

He might as well have been a white walker, dead inside, as he lead Sansa down the aisle and placed her hand in Littlefinger’s. 

But his heart screamed like a wight when Lord Baelish draped his cloak around Sansa’s shoulders, and the deed was done. 

The lords and ladies cheered. Jon stormed out of the sept and grabbed another horn of ale. 

He steeled himself for the small talk, the pleasantries. He’d do it as long as needed and not a moment more. His mood wouldn’t seem too out of sorts with a reputation for brooding and everyone aware he departed early the next morning for Cerwyn. If Winterfell was lost in battle against the Night King, Jon had plans for castle Cerwyn as the next stronghold in the march south. 

Jon suffered brotherly claps on the back, toasts in congratulations, and the sound of Sansa’s laughter, although it did sound forced to his ears. The only other person who seemed as cheerless as himself was Brienne of Tarth, who eyed Littlefinger warily. 

Jon escaped to his room before any bedding took place. He didn’t think there was one; he never heard the footfalls of a crowd. 

But later that night, he heard the door to Littlefinger’s chambers slam shut, and knew Sansa was within. In Lord Baelish’s bed. 

Jon pictured Petyr’s hands all over her naked body, and fell to his knees. He crouched on the stone floor in what turned into the longest night of his life, hands clenched around his head, his hair, trying to tear the images from his mind. 

#

Sansa was a woman now, a wife. Lord Bae – _Petyr_ – was no fool like Ramsey. She knew he’d be quick to consummate their union and leave no questions about validity. 

Only, he wasn’t quick at all really, she reflected. 

Sansa did not love Littlefinger. But he surprised her on their wedding night in ways… ways a lady didn’t discuss. He was not the husband she would have chosen, given a choice. But, he did truly care for her, and it was a wise union, strategically. Perhaps, in time, she could grow to love him, as her mother grew to love her father. 

She had no chance to reflect further, as a knock against the door interrupted her thoughts. 

“Lady Sansa?” a guard asked. 

She glanced down at Littlefinger, who slept soundly. 

Sansa carefully climbed out of bed, put on her dressing gown, and answered the door. 

“Yes?” 

“My lady, your brother has returned.” 

“My brother?” Sansa asked, confused. Had Jon left and come back for some reason already? 

The guard nodded. “Lord Brandon Stark is being moved to his chambers now. He arrived moments ago, along with Lady Meera Reed.” 

Sansa let out a sound between a gasp and a laugh. Brandon! Could it be true? Jon would be so happy. 

And then with a feeling like ice water dumped in her belly, she remembered the truth about Jon and forced him from her thoughts. 

“And where is Lord… King Jon?” Sansa asked. 

“Left before sunrise, my lady, along with Ser Davos.” 

The news didn’t delight Sansa as much as she hoped. She got what she wanted and yet, having Jon away from Winterfell, from… her?... felt wrong. But there was no time to dwell. 

“Thank you. I’ll be down in a moment,” she told the guard. 

Sansa hurried to clothe herself, strap on a pair of boots, and quietly exit her bedchambers. Forcing herself not to run, she headed straight for Bran’s room, heart pounding. 

“Bran,” she called, throwing herself at him in a deep hug and letting go only to look at him, to study the face she’d missed for so long. How he’d grown!

“Hello, Sansa,” he said evenly. 

“Bran?” she asked, hesitant. “What’s wrong?” 

“He’s the three-eyed raven now,” Meera explained, announcing her presence from the corner of the room. 

For the first time, Sansa looked back at her. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Bran can see things… things that have happened in the past, or are happening now.” 

Sansa looked back at her brother, confused. “Like, visions?” 

“I saw you at your wedding last night. You looked so beautiful. I saw you at all your weddings. The gold dress for the Lannisters. The white with the Boltons.” 

Sansa’s mouth parted, surprised. 

“Where’s Jon?” Bran asked. “I have something to tell him.”

“He… left. This morning."

Bran stared ahead, accepting the news without emotion. “Then I must wait.”

He turned to Sansa, and there was something bird-like in the flick of his head. His face held a strange, blank look, as if gazing faraway into a world she could not see. 

“I have important things to tell you too.”


	4. Chapter 4

Rage like wildfire coursed through Sansa’s veins. She felt it searing her arms, her legs. Felt as if it were real thing, radiating out of her body and threatening to burn all of Winterfell to the ground. 

Her gloved hands squeezed the stone atop the castle walls where she stood, looking out at the snow but not seeing. Over and over she heard Bran’s words in her head. Telling her the truth about Littlefinger. His betrayal of her father, leading to Ned’s execution. His part in Bran’s attempted murder. 

His lies to wed her, bed her. 

And so much more. Murder and deception in self-service of his climb to power. Bran saw it all, even as far back as the clever lies he told in his youth at Riverrun, and how he’d first come into his gold. Oh, Sansa had wondered how a boy from the Fingers made his way to Master of Coin. Now she knew. When Jon Arryn instated Littlefinger as customs officer in Gulltown, Petyr looked the other way – for a cut of the profit, of course – when lessor lords snuck undesirable prisoners off on ships secretly bound for slave cities.

With a connection across the Narrow Sea, Lord Baelish wasn’t above selling those who got in his way, either. Eventually he moved on to investing in the slave trade, leveraging those earnings to open brothels around King’s Landing -- often using his contacts to import women from Essos who were little more than slaves themselves. 

Bran’s vision about her marriage seemed impossible, conflicting directly with Jon’s own words. Sansa summoned Brienne and Podrick to her, separately, and had them each relate exactly what had transpired between Jon and Lord Baelish the day they agreed to lay siege to Winterfell. 

Their accounts confirmed Bran’s version, and… the feeling she had in her own gut. 

But why then, had Jon told her otherwise? Had Littlefinger blackmailed him in some way? 

Most likely. 

Sansa gripped the rampart tighter still, as if she could rip the stone in two. She pictured Lord Baelish’s head in its place. She hated him, and, by the Seven, _worse,_ she hated him all the more for what happened between them in private that she couldn’t genuinely claim to hate. She hated that she could close her eyes and see it right then, that even though it would fade in time, it could never be undone. He fooled her, he tricked her, and, like an idiot, she played right into his hands. His bed. 

It wouldn’t have happened if Jon were there. He would have physically put himself in front of her rather than let Littlefinger touch her. Though family and honor competed for first place in Jon, she believed what he told her that night in her room. He would sacrifice his own honor, if needed, to protect her. Just like their father. 

Even Jon’s name passing through her mind sent a pang she didn’t understand, to her heart. 

_You idiot,_ she cursed herself. She’d treated him so badly when they were younger, only to let him down again when they needed each other most. She had so much to atone for now. 

_Forgive me, Jon._

She needed to send a raven to Castle Cerwyn. First, she needed Maester Wolkan for a cup of moon tea. Or two, just to be safe. 

Sansa pictured Lord Baelish’s smirk should he ever get her with child. 

_Better make it three,_ she thought, clenching her jaw. 

Considering Maester Wolkan… a seed of an idea took root in Sansa’s head. She remembered the night Jon came to her room, her addled state. She couldn’t piece it all together yet, but she felt the start of a plan. 

Sansa needed time to think, alone, but she was meeting with Lord Royce and Lord Baelish that afternoon. She’d have to hide the truth, smile at Petyr and pretend to be the happy wife. 

Her fury boiled up and through her body again, making her want to scream, creating a roar like the ocean in her ears until – 

_“Sansa.”_

A voice on the wind. 

Had she heard something?

Sansa turned. Blinked hard. Gasped. 

_Arya._

Like Bran, she looked so different. Older. Stronger. “Do I have to call you Lady Stark now?” Arya asked. “Or is it Lady Baelish?” 

Sansa didn’t answer, she ran to her hug her sister. 

“I’m so glad to see you,” Sansa whispered, voice cracking at the end. 

Arya pulled back and scrutinized Sansa’s face. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Sansa told her. About the Boltons, about Jon, about taking back Winterfell and Bran’s return. She felt angry heat rise to her cheeks as she told her about Littlefinger.

The intimacy may never have come to pass had it not been for the rush of feelings on seeing one another after so many years apart, and Arya arriving just then to witness the exposure of the chink in Sansa’s armor. Arya _carefully_ confided in her sister about her travels, and the Faceless Men. 

Sansa couldn’t help but give a small laugh at the notion of Arya as a deadly killer. 

Until she took her sister to too see Bran, who confirmed just that, and more. 

As they talked through the morning, Sansa turned the knowledge of Arya’s skills over in her head, seeing different angles. Instead of being upset or threatened, the pieces of a plan began to fit together. It was as if the seed sprouted, and each part necessary became a branch of the same tree. Maester Wolkan. Arya. Herself. Even Littlefinger could unwittingly play a part, just as he had done to her. 

Suddenly, she looked forward to the afternoon’s meeting. 

#

Two ravens landed in Winterfell bearing messages that gave a Sansa’s stomach a sinking feeling for their complications in the war to come. 

However, they served to help her plan. 

The first note came from a Samwell Tarly at Oldtown, alerting Jon to the presence of dragonglass mines on Dragonstone. The second came from the Dragon Queen herself, summoning Jon to bend the knee, in that very same location. 

“Jon shall do no such thing,” Lord Yohn Royce declared, when she shared the letters across the table. 

“I agree,” Sansa said. 

_I wish Jon were here now,_ she thought, before chiding herself. _No. He saved me once. It’s my turn to save myself now._

It occurred to Sansa how different they were, yet similar. Jon employed siege tactics, prowess on the battlefield, and skill at commanding armies, to rescue her. Bravery and valor.

Sansa plotted with clever politics, sound logic, and the ability to prepare several steps ahead. Wisdom and foresight. 

The two talents complemented one another. 

“Sansa,” Lord Baelish whispered, calling her attention. “Perhaps its best for Jon to seek out the dragonglass. He could travel-”

“The army of the dead is marching from the North and a war with not one, but two enemy queens threatens us from the south,” Sansa interrupted. “It is safest not for just Jon, but every man, woman, and child for Jon to stay here, and help us prepare. Once he returns from Cerwyn we’ll send other men to help fortify the strongholds of the North, or escort supporting armies back to Winterfell, as need be. And he can decide what to do with this news at that time.” 

She looked at her husband, withholding any trace of emotion as she said, “I sent a raven to Castle Cerwyn this morning, urging Jon to return immediately. Jon and I have had our disagreements in the past, but we’ll need to work together now.” 

_Imagine all the long meetings we’ll have, Lord Baelish. Meetings where we might discuss what really happened in the Eyrie._

Lord Royce nodded his earnest agreement. “The King in the North needs to stay in the north.” 

“Yes, that is sound reason,” Littlefinger said. “Perhaps, it would be best to fortify the Vale in the near future. I’ve been considering our strategic defense. You are aware the Sept of Balor was destroyed in a wildfire accident? If we fail to hold the North, we could position ourselves in the Vale, lure the dead toward the Eyrie. I can treat with Cersei and may be able to secure large quantities of wildfire. I know she is our enemy, but she trusts me. Once the dead pass the Mountains of the Moon and fill the valley, would could set it afire. Burn them all.” 

Sansa fought not to sneer. She had to admit the strategy had some merits, but how like Littlefinger to turn and treat with Lannisters first chance he got. 

“And what would we give Cersei in return?” Sansa asked, a chill in her voice. 

She knew exactly what Lord Baelish would deliver Cersei. 

_Jon._

A cold hand gripped her heart at the though of Jon as Cersei’s prisoner. 

“If I can persuade Queen Cersei that the dead are enough of a threat, we might not need to give her anything at all. She might be indebted to us for destroying a common enemy. Maybe even enough to grant the North independence.” 

Sansa let out a low laugh. “Cersei will never let the north go. Besides, I don’t think she’d trust you after declaring for House Stark and marrying me.” 

_Proving that you would give her Jon in the bargain._

“It is safest, my dear, for you to stay in the Vale now, regardless. I can escort you there as soon as possible.” 

Sansa batted her eyelashes prettily. Those were exactly the words she needed to hear. 

The first part of her plan fell nicely into place. 

“Abandoning my people would be cowardly. I will stay and do whatever I’m able in the service of protecting them.” 

Littlefinger bowed his head. “Forgive me, my dear, I was thinking only of your safety and that of the child you might already be carrying.” He reached out and laid his hand on her belly. 

To Sansa’s credit as a burgeoning master player, she didn’t recoil, only allowed her face to soften, and replied, “I understand, my love. But I was born in Winterfell, and I will die here, if it comes to that.”

#

Pleased, Sansa turned the bottle in her hands, watching the liquid pool. Everything else had rested on Maester Wolkan providing this vial. After requesting the moon tea, she asked him for a second potion. Something akin to shade of the evening or milk of the poppy, a concoction that would produce a similar effect to the night she mixed poppy and ale, suffering dispossession of all her faculties. The key here being, she needed a draught that would addle the state of mind, but not render the recipient too obvious, as she had been, like a stumbling drunk. Rather, a victim less noticeably suspectable to suggestion, and not quite conscious of their surroundings, though able to navigate them in a passable state. 

“Will the man who drinks this be able to walk plainly?” she asked the maester.

He nodded.

“But not be too aware of where he is walking?” Sansa pressed. 

“There is a touch of evening shade within. Not so much as the Warlocks of Qarth ingest, but enough to convince the drinker of visions, muddled with the pliant mind of the poppy. Of course, I have not personally tested the substance, but references to similar potions have been recorded at the Citadel.” 

“Thank you, Maester Wolkan,” Sansa replied, taking her leave. 

Now, to choose the right soldier for bribing. 

#

Sansa blew to dry the ink. By the eighth try, she felt her letter looked close enough to Littlefinger’s hand. 

And Arya thought her penmanship skills would never serve any worthwhile purpose. 

“Are you ready?” her sister asked. 

Sansa took a deep breath, nodded. 

“Tell Lord Baelish I’ve decided to dine in our chambers this evening.”

Arya flashed a tight grin and departed, quick and light on her feet. 

Sansa leaned back in her chair and brought her hand to her mouth, readying herself. 

She needed to be seductive enough to entice Lord Baelish to let down his guard, but not so much that he became suspicious. Most importantly, she had to remain the blushing bride, provoking him to do the leading he so seemed to relish. 

“Sansa,” Littlefinger whispered upon entering. 

“My Lord,” she gave her prettiest smile, though her stomach threatened to empty itself at the sight of him. 

A spread had been laid with roasted hare, the last of the oatcakes, and of course, plenty of wine. 

“This looks lovely,” he said. “And so do you, my dear.” 

_Enjoy the view, Lord Baelish. It’s your last._

She rose, handing him the spiked goblet. 

Littlefinger’s hand closed around the stem. He lifted the glass, holding her eyes as he brought it to his lips. Sansa’s heart skipped a beat. 

Distracted by a thought, Littlefinger brought it back down. 

_Drink the bloody wine,_ she thought, covering her groan with a girlish laugh.

“You really look so beautiful tonight,” Littlefinger said, eyes running over her body. “Did I ever tell you…” 

_Oh, shut up._

Sansa didn’t hear whatever he said on the matter. She wouldn’t have been surprised if it was something about her mother, even at a time like this. She couldn’t listen to one more moment of his self-satisfied speeches and restrain herself from clawing his face off. 

She sat on the bed and tilted her head down, looking up at Petyr through her eyelashes. 

“Last night was…” she let her voice trail off, blushed. Sansa raised one shoulder, ducking her check to touch it in a move she hoped both provocative and sincere. “There are other things I’d like to do tonight, only… Maybe it would be best to have some wine first.” 

Lord Baelish grinned, eyes flashing. 

“Bring me my wine?” 

With a flourish, he scooped her glass from the table and handed it to her. 

Sansa trained her eyes on his hands, making sure she took the right one. She wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating Lord Baelish again. 

Then she held Petyr’s eyes as she took a long, suggestive gulp, an invitation for him to do the same. 

He did. 

Sansa smiled into her cup. 

#

Arya kicked Littlefinger’s foot, but he only grinned vacantly back at her. 

“How often do we dose him?” she asked. 

“Maester Wolkan said every few hours,” Sansa replied, fussing about their room. 

By the time last of the draught wore off – administered by the escort along the way - Lord Baelish would be on a slaver ship, bound for Volantis. Doomed to live out his days as he condemned so many others. 

Sansa hoped they found the right soldier. A man with reason enough to abandon the north for Essos, dishonorable enough to engage in a hideous practice, but trustworthy enough to follow through, and loyal enough not to betray her later. No easy combination of motivations and morals, and she hoped she choose wisely. She didn’t want to have to murder a man the way Littlefinger killed Ser Dontos. 

Sansa blew the ink a final time, just to be sure. The note Littlefinger would leave behind branded him a coward, abandoning his wife for safety with his relations across the Narrow Sea; a story Sansa planned to confirm with a tale of an “argument” they had that evening. Coupled with Lord Royce’s testimony of Lord Baelish urging retreat to the Vale, there’d be little reason to question the act. 

“It’s critical that witnesses see Lord Baelish board the first ship,” Sansa told her sister, who’d be accompanying the soldier and Littlefinger as far as White Harbor. Though she’d only just returned, the rest of Winterfell believed Arya to be restlessly heading North to Hornwood, to train young boys and girls with the sword. 

“I can manage,” Arya replied, face like a stone. “It would be easier to kill him, you know. Maybe kinder. And no loose ends.” 

“After what he did to our family, he doesn’t deserve the mercy of death,” Sansa spat. 

“Is that it?” Arya asked, raising her eyebrows. “Or is it that you can’t do it? I think a part of you has feelings for Littlefinger in some way.” 

Sansa gave her sister a cold stare in return. “Does it really matter? The result is the same, in the end.” 

#

“Good riddance,” Lord Royce bellowed, upon hearing the news of Lord Baelish’s sudden, and permanent, departure the next morning. “Forgive me, my lady, you must be distraught.” 

“It’s alright, Lord Royce.” Sansa sighed, feigning a sad-but-determined look. “I would sooner he abandon me to wait out the coming war, than stay and spread fear through our men with his cowardice. I am a Stark, I will always be a Stark. My place is here, in Winterfell, where I will stay and defend the North against any threat, alive or dead.” 

Lord Royce bowed his head in approval of her words.

“Perhaps we should have made you our Queen, my lady.”

“You honor me. But Jon is our King.” Sansa smiled, kindly, then sighed again, this time truly. A raven had arrived, Jon was delayed at Cerwyn and would not return for several more days. “I will do my best in his absence.” 

In truth, she spent most of her free time wringing her hands and pacing. Getting Lord Baelish to drink the concoction hadn’t been too difficult. Sneaking him out of Winterfell that night had been a challenge. She would have preferred him to already be outside the castle walls when they began, but he wasn’t much for hunting or riding.

The most difficult part was getting him to White Harbor and on the first ship, and Sansa was helpless to do anything now but wait. It was in Arya’s hands. Or whatever face and hands Arya wore for the task. 

Days passed, and snow fell. On the morning her sister returned, Sansa was keeping post as she often did, on the ramparts by the East Gate, looking out for riders. 

“It’s done,” came Arya’s voice behind her.

Sansa turned. She closed her eyes, relief washing over her. 

“Thank you,” she replied, fluttering her eyes open, letting the snowflakes caress her cheeks, her lashes. “Was it witnessed?” 

“I made sure.” 

Arya’s face was hard to read, as if she wore a mask without a mask. Sansa had a quivering feeling in her stomach. 

“Arya… did you really get him to port? Is Littlefinger bound for a slaver’s ship to Volantis? Or, did you… did you kill him and wear his face in White Harbor?”

Arya’s expression remained blank as she echoed, “Does it really matter? The result is the same, in the end.” 

#

_I wish Jon were here, Sansa thought._

She mistakenly believed that dealing with Littlefinger would please her, or, make her feel something at the very least. Instead, without the distraction of her rage, a void gaped she felt restless to fill. 

No, that wasn’t right. A void gaped she felt determined _not_ to fill. As if she kept something at bay that had nothing to do with Littlefinger or any of the abuse she suffered. Sansa hadn’t realized she’d been relying on fury, till now, as a way to keep her mind from other things. A simmering, quiet anger served her well in the past. Kept her strong, kept her alive through horrors. It built up until the worst betrayal yet required her worst vengeance yet. 

But she lived with anger so long… perhaps as a way to keep other, more confusing emotions at a distance. 

In King’s Landing, Sansa had a lot of time to think about what an ass she was to her brother, growing up. 

Only now, pacing the halls of Winterfell, she was beginning to wonder _why_ she was such an ass. 

Her feet took her to Jon’s room. Empty, but, opening the oaken door, she breathed in his unnamable, lingering scent. So masculine, so _Jon._ Something wild, like the direwolf in a winter wood, but something foreign too, something fierce and otherworldly. 

Craving privacy, she closed the door behind her. 

If only she hadn’t all but banished Jon with false claims he disgusted her. He didn’t. Littlefinger did. And Jon was as far from Littlefinger as any man she’d ever met. No girl could ask for a brother as brave and gentle and strong. 

Sansa didn’t know why, but she lay on Jon’s bed. 

How many nights had he lain here? Thousands. 

At that moment an image came to her mind, of Jon, all in black, reclining next to her. One arm behind his head, gazing up at the cracked ceiling. She supposed he’d lain like that many times. She supposed he lain with less clothing, too. Maybe shirtless. Hard muscles, corded just enough from ranging, from fighting. Strong arms and deft hands, practiced at wielding a sword. What would they feel like wrapped around her naked body, caressing her sides?

Sansa shot up in bed. 

She’d let her eyes close, her mouth part, her _legs_ part, in imagining. She quickly pressed her legs back together. 

Only, that seemed to enflame her longing. 

Struggling to catch her breath, she willed her writhing body to stillness. 

_There._

Calm. 

Then, her hand flew to her heart. Clutched it. Panicked, Sansa covered her mouth with her other hand. 

She had been a stupid girl, willfully ignorant, but now, the truth struck her like a hammer. 

Though she could force her body to still, force her arms and legs not to respond to the thought of Jon- 

She couldn’t still her heart. 

#

Shame and surprise and confusion all paled in comparison to the anguish wracking her soul. 

She loved Jon. Her _brother._ Some small part of her always had, even from the beginning. 

As if a dam broke, all the feelings she denied since her youth crashed over her. 

_You idiot._ Then. Now. 

Jon would return any day. She couldn’t face him. 

She’d leave. Go to the Targaryen Queen and plead to mine the dragonglass. Or head to Braavos and appeal to the Iron Bank to help fund the Northern armies. It was dangerous, but what did she care for her life anymore? Whether they lost the war or defeated the Night King, whether Littlefinger stayed gone or Cersei came to Winterfell or Daenerys suddenly died, no outcome could ever bring her anything but a life of misery. There were no happy endings for girls who fell in love with their brothers. Even half-brothers.

Best to use her life in the service of the North. She’d take Brienne and head for White Harbor at first light. 

Before she risked seeing Jon again. 

#

The rebuilding of Winterfell progressed nicely, Jon observed, as he rode toward the gate. He was sure Sansa had a hand in that. 

Her letter urged him to return, but mentioned no business requiring his immediate attention. He considered if she had to be vague for fear of watchful eyes, or potential interception of the raven, but dismissed the idea. She was too clever not to have worked in a warning only he would have understood. 

In his desperate moments, alone in his room, he wondered if she wrote because she… changed her mind. She _said_ he disgusted her, but, that night in her chambers, when she turned around and spoke of their childhood… it felt intimate. As if she… wanted him to grab her, kiss her. 

He’d been so wrong. Hadn’t he? 

What was the point now anyway? She was his sister. She married Lord Baelish. The very thought was dishonorable, unmentionable, and he wouldn’t drag Sansa down with him.

Before departing Cerwyn, ravens arrived with news of Bran and Arya’s return, and Jon had something to look forward to on his ride. He felt excitement rise within, as he dismounted and searched the Winterfell courtyard for the faces of his siblings.

Even Sansa’s. 

_Mainly Sansa’s._

“Jon!” Arya called, running down the steps. 

“Arya,” Jon laughed, disbelieving, his eyes wet. 

She was still small enough that he could pick her up into a hug. She was happy enough to see him that she allowed it. 

“Where’s Sansa?” Jon asked.

Arya almost rolled her eyes, as she did when they were younger. “The Lady of Winterfell?” she said with gentle mocking. Then her face fell, and she grew serious. “Two ravens arrived for you, and we read them in your absence. One from Samwell Tarly, instructing us on the presence of dragonglass mines on Dragonstone. The other, from the Targaryen Queen herself, requesting you to come to Dragonstone and bend the knee.” 

_Dragonglass._ Jon’s amazement was tempered by his next thought. 

“What does that have to do with Sansa?” 

“Littlefinger is gone. Sansa and Lady Brienne travelled to Dragonstone this morning. To beseech the Targaryen Queen for mining rights. Or Braavos, to ask the Iron Bank to back our armies. I’m not sure which she decided, she said she’d send word from White Harbor.” 

“What happened to Lord Baelish?” Jon asked, not particularly saddened to hear. 

“He won’t be troubling us anymore,” Arya said, evenly. “Come. Bran has been asking for you. We can catch up adventures of the past, later.” 

Jon let Arya lead him to his brother, and found Bran sitting beside a fire in his chambers, staring vacantly into the flames, furs piled in his lap. 

Bran picked up his head, giving Jon a small, tight smile. “Hello Jon,” Bran greeted, sounding much older than his years. 

Jon bent to hug his brother, eyes wetting once more. 

“Bran’s the three-eyed-raven now,” Arya said, launching into an explanation of his journey, his visions. After all Jon had seen beyond the wall, it didn’t take much convincing. Jon was happy to see his brother again, in any form. 

“I need to talk to Jon alone,” Bran said. 

“Alright,” Arya agreed softly. “I’ll see you tonight, at supper.” 

With the agility of a cat, she left without a sound, closing the door behind her. Jon sat down across from his brother. 

“You need to know the truth about your parents.” Bran said. 

“My… parents?” Jon asked, bewildered. 

“Ned Stark is not your father. His sister, Lady Lyanna is your mother. She died giving birth to you after being wed in a secret ceremony to Rhaegar Targaryen - your father.”

Jon started, head flinching, as if the words knocked him back. 

Several times he attempted to speak and failed. All the while Bran looked on, impassively. 

As much as Jon wanted to contest the words, he felt the truth deep within. Like the wheels of a great gear clicked and locked into place. All his life he’d felt different. He didn’t care if his mother was noble lady, a peasant maid, or a whore. He just wanted to know her, to love her. But something didn’t feel right in any of those imaginings. If he was honest, something didn’t feel right about Ned, either. But he felt like a Stark, through to his core, a true Stark. So he could never make sense of it.

Aunt Lyanna. No, Lyanna, his _mother._ It felt right. 

And Rhaegar. More difficult to accept and, at the same time, Jon felt a quickening with the knowledge, like a sleeping dragon awoke within. It was always there. Pushing him further than other men. Willing him to fight for the Night’s Watch, yearning to range beyond the wall. As if it longed to be free, and couldn’t fully, until he acknowledged it. Fed it. Climbed on it’s back and rode it. 

There was only one place he wanted to ride now. 

Whatever the truth meant for the North, whatever it might mean for the wars to come or the Iron Throne, all fell to the wayside. 

He was a Targaryan. And a Stark. 

But not Eddard’s son. 

Not Sansa’s brother. 

He could be so much more to her. 

“Thank you, Bran,” he said, and sprinted out of the room. Jon ran through the castle and straight to the courtyard, where his mount hadn’t even yet been taken to the sables.

“My horse!” he called to the groomsmen. 

“Where are you going?” Arya asked, catching up from behind. 

“I need to talk to Sansa. I ride for White Harbor.” Jon stopped only flash a smile down at Arya. “You’re the Lady of Winterfell now.” 

Arya shrugged. “Been that since she left.” 

In one swift motion, Jon swung up onto his horse and galloped toward the gate. 

#

He couldn’t be far behind. Other than reasons of safety, Brienne and Sansa had no cause to hurry. No reason like he had. 

Jon pressed his heels into his steed, urging him faster. Dust from the Kingsroad rose up in clouds in his wake. His dark hair swept around his face as he bobbed, finally sticking to his skin, slick with sweat. 

The sun crossed the sky. He passed the odd wagon and endless snow-dusted trees. At the first opportunity, Jon turned East, taking the smaller path toward White Harbor, and rode on. He didn’t know how long he could ride past nightfall, he didn’t want to miss their camp. Although, more likely they’d rest at a tavern. He had to catch her. Without knowing where she headed for certain, he’d be forced to return to Winterfell and wait for word. She wasn’t safe, especially in the clutches of the Dragon Queen, who’d no doubt take her hostage against Jon, at the very least. 

A cold hand gripped Jon’s heart at the thought of Sansa as Daenerys’s prisoner. 

Jon glanced up. The sun dipped low in the sky. 

What would cause her to do something so stupid? She’s always said she’d never go South again. 

Unless… could it be possible she had similar fears about facing him? 

Jon kicked the side of his horse again. _Faster._

A figure appeared on the roadside, hazy at first. Tall, too tall to be Sansa. Armored. Holding the reins of two horses. 

_Lady Brienne._

Jon pushed his horse faster still. 

Brienne turned, hand on sword as she heard his approach. 

“Jon?” she asked, relaxing her grip and frowning in confusion. 

“Where’s Sansa?” Jon shouted, panting, pulling his horse to a stop. 

“My Lady’s there-” she pointed up, toward the crest of a hill. “Taken a moment to rest before we ride for shelter. Looks a bit more like brooding, if you ask me.” 

Jon whipped his head up in the direction she pointed. 

_There._

He could make out the black of her cloak. She faced away from him, walking in the opposite directing, gazing toward the setting sun. 

“Ah!” he yelled, kicking his horse into action. 

He cleared the hill in seconds, catching Sansa’s attention with the quick _thwump_ of hoof on earth as he neared. 

Sansa turned, hair highlighted by the smoldering orange of the sky. 

Gods, she was beautiful. 

“Jon?” she asked, startled. 

Her hand flew to her heart so immediately, Jon didn’t even think she knew she did it. 

He jumped off his horse and covered the distance between them in two strides. 

“Ned’s not my father.” 

He meant to say more. That Bran had told him this. Who his real parents were. He meant at least to give time for Sansa to process it. 

But he couldn’t stop himself. He grabbed Sansa, one hand on her waist, one on her face, and pulled her to him, hard. 

He didn’t know how well he succeeded, but he did his best to hold his mouth from crushing hers, as he claimed her lips.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to Authors_Restraint, whose story _Winterfell is (not) yours, your grace,_ helped inspire my Daenerys. Recommend a read!

“But that means you’re…” Sansa drawled.

“Aye. Not your half-brother.”

“And next in line for the Iron Throne.” She barely whispered the words and stepped back, unsure what that meant for the future, unsure who the man in front of her really was. 

Jon had pulled her back again, by the waist. “I don’t want it. I want you.” 

Sansa didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or shout. Complicating her emotions, Brienne charged the hill, sword drawn. 

_“Step away from my lady.”_

Despite addressing the king, Brienne didn’t shrink from her declaration in the least. 

“It’s alright,” Sansa raised her hand to still Brienne’s sword. Where to begin? She wasn’t even sure if she could believe it all. 

But… with this knowledge, everything made sense now. The way she and Jon danced around one another all their lives - even when a part of that dance involved turning away, they were always engaged as a set pair, as if tied together. 

“Jon’s not… Jon is…” She shook her head and started again, repeating all that he whispered to her between kisses. About Rhaegar, Lyanna. Annulments and secret weddings.

“My lady? Your grace?” Brienne muttered. 

“He’s the true heir to the Iron Throne.” Sansa declared. 

Any other man would have glorified in the knowledge. Jon looked humbled. 

“Please tell no one,” Sansa urged. 

“You have my word,” Brienne swore. 

“There’s an inn, a few minutes up the road,” Jon said. “Take Sansa’s horse and ride. We’ll shelter there, for the night. We can return to Winterfell tomorrow.” 

Jon mounted his steed, then held his hand out to Sansa. He wasn’t going to let her out of his sight, or out of his grasp, again. 

Sansa reached up, and Jon pulled her not behind, but astride before him, her back pressed against his chest. 

Brienne nodded, and Jon kicked his horse to go. 

While her thoughts ran wild, Sansa let her body relax into Jon, a delicious warmth filling her. 

Her hair might have been kissed by fire, but in her soul, he was the one who burned. Jon was the hearth in the cold northern winter, the dawn after the long night. The light, the heat, that kept her going. 

His blood thrummed with the fire of the dragon. But, not as volatile as fire alone. Jon was no scaled beast, prone to tempers, fits of madness. His heart beat with the devoted, steadfast nature of the wolf. 

A creature who tended to mate for life. 

Jon was the blood of the dragon, she marveled. The heart of the wolf. 

#

How many times had they been in a room, alone, together? 

Nothing had changed. 

Everything had changed. 

She could perceive Jon try to restrain himself, try to slow down, and fail. She understood. There would be time gentleness later. Years. 

Jon pressed Sansa against the door he’d only just kicked shut, kissing her neck and making no effort to hide his growing need. She let out a muffled gasp, or a moan, he wasn’t sure. 

_“Sansa…”_ Just him saying her name caused her breath to hitch and a funny feeling of pleasure shoot through her gut. 

“Wait,” she protested, not sure why. 

“I’m not your brother. It’s not wrong,” Jon said. 

“No, you’re my… cousin.” 

“Grandfather married his cousin,” Jon argued. 

“I-” Sansa stammered. Was he talking about marrying her? 

In her pause, Jon leaned in and kissed her again, driving his tongue deeper than before. Sansa’s heart pounded, her head spun.

But she couldn’t turn her mind off. Not only did she have so many questions, the guilt that wracked her since she learned the truth about Littlefinger wouldn’t leave her be. 

She gently pushed him off.

“Jon, I was awful to you when we were younger. And everything I did to you back at Winterfell after you rescued me…” 

“It’s in the past,” Jon dismissed her with a flick of his head. 

“I’m so sorry, Jon,” Sansa repeated. “Forgive me?” 

“There’s nothing to-” 

Jon cut himself off, imagining the dragon within unfurled and stretched. 

“Aye, I’ll forgive you,” he said with a grin and a glint in his eyes. “Once you make it up to me.” 

“How would I do that?” she asked slowly. 

Jon’s grin widened, more playful, but the look in his eyes twinkled darker. 

“Let’s start by tearing off that pretty little dress you’re wearing, and I’ll show you.” 

His voice, deep and husky, again gave her that pleasurable sensation in her belly. Not to mention the image his words put to mind. 

Still, Sansa faltered, until she finally realized what she’d been holding back. 

“Jon, you should know… Lord Baelish and I… I’m familiar with the intimacies between a man and a woman. Unmistakably. In case that matters.” 

Jon chuckled, startling her. “I’m sorry,” he quickly amended. 

“Why would it matter? Do you think you’re the first woman I’ve been with?” he asked, not unkindly. “Do you think she was unfamiliar with - how did you put it? _the intimacies between a man and a woman?”_

Jon put his hands on her face. “I wish it wasn’t _him._ But I don’t care that you’ve known another in your bed-” 

“-as long as you remember. There will never again be anyone else.” 

Jon pressed hard against her as he finished, making sure she felt his promise. Sansa moaned, melting into him. 

#

“What do we do now?” Sansa asked, looking up at the wooden beams on the ceiling, one arm draped over Jon. 

“Well, we can’t do that again until I have time to recover.” She could hear his smile through his words. 

Sansa gave Jon a light smack. “I mean about _you._ Your parents. What will we tell everyone? What about the Dragon Queen?” 

Jon ran his hands along Sansa’s sides, dipping lower, causing her to shiver. He turned toward her and kissed her forehead. 

“We need her dragonglass and, if she really has three dragons, we could use those too. Fire kills White Walkers.” 

“You think she’s just going to give them to us?” Sansa asked, a bit of sarcasm dripping into her voice. 

“No,” Jon replied. “But if I can convince her to fly to Winterfell to meet with us, maybe I can convince her to fly a bit further. See the army of the dead for herself. You said her letter asked me to come to Dragonstone? Well, it makes more sense for her to come here. It would take me weeks to travel. She could fly here in hours.” 

“That’s lovely, but how would we convince her?” Sansa asked. “She’s at war. What could lure her out of the safety of Dragonstone and this far north?” 

“Me,” Jon answered. 

#

Jon prided himself on integrity, honesty. But the letter had some obscurity to it. A small omission of information in the service of saving the realm. 

A deception he could live with. 

_I know who my mother is,_ he wrote to Tyrion, and the silver-haired queen. _I share the blood of the Dragon. Come to Winterfell, in peace. We have much to discuss, and if the dragons are real, you can fly here faster than I can sail there._

Well, Sansa had crafted a more eloquent rendition, but that was the main idea. 

Tyrion would read a challenge behind his words, but Jon heard the Targaryen Queen was hot-headed enough to want to show her power by proving him wrong about her dragons. More importantly, after she’d lost two vital allies, Jon knew that Daenerys… his… _aunt…_ would need to explore other options. His letter implied a kinship which could serve to unite them. Enough to tempt her into discussions, he hoped. But he also knew this eager conqueror would see the potential threat, even before he revealed the truth. 

They needed to prepare for any possibility. 

#

The Dragon Queen arrived at Winterfell with no army, but three huge dragons, rendering any other force unnecessary. The biggest beast, the black one called Drogon, carried several men. Lord Tyrion. Ser Jorah Mormont. And Theon Greyjoy. 

Jon wasn’t sure if she brought Theon as a mutual friend to aid in lowering his guard and swaying him to her side, or, if she aimed to display how easily she could turn his former ally to her service. 

Either way, the move served Jon, because the more players gathered who knew and respected his honor, the more reliable witnesses he could leverage when the truth came out. 

Daenerys kept her head raised when they met, a move similar to Sansa’s, but it seemed defensive, self-satisfied, and laced with more than a little arrogance. Whereas Sansa ruled with a noble grace, Daenerys appeared to try to raise herself up by looking down at those around her. Jon didn’t find a desperate conceit to subjugate others attractive or endearing. 

When she arrived, however, Daenerys dismounted first, and Jon had to respect that she at least was willing to endanger herself before those closest to her. To inspire the support of wise men like Tyrion, he knew she had to have many admirable qualities. 

But that didn’t make her his Queen. 

#

Daenerys eyed the women by Jon’s sides. The tall, red one, stared barely-sheathed daggers, and the small dark one carried _actual_ daggers. Just behind them, a young boy with an odd countenance stared from his wheelchair. She felt the prickle of irritation, and something else too. 

Envy. 

A family stood together, united in their cause. Somehow, she might, loosely be a part of this family. That very blood tie is what spurred her flight. 

Yet she approached as a rival, an enemy. 

Everyone knew Jon’s father to be Ned Stark. Daenerys didn’t think he’d kept secret an affair with Elia Martell. Ned hadn’t been in King’s Landing at that time, she was told, and Elia’s children where murdered anyway. Weren’t they? Another relative, further back, had to be the answer. Perhaps this _Jon Snow_ had the blood of the dragon, diluted through a history of her relatives. Perhaps Ned got his bastard on a daughter long descended from another secret bastard in her family tree. Most likely. He was her kin, but no real threat. 

And with shared blood and the North behind him, he could be a powerful ally. 

If only he looked the least inclined to bend the knee. 

After greetings and introductions, the Starks escorted her into their great hall. Daenerys was surprised to find it mostly empty. She had assumed they’d be surrounded by soldiers, guards, or servants, at least. 

Only a few others sat in chairs around a long table. A redheaded man, Tormund, she quickly learned to be one of the Freefolk. An older man, Ser Davos Seaworth, who once served the pretender king Stannis Baratheon. And a tubby, jolly-looking maester called Samwell Tarly.

A lady-knight chose to remain standing above them, along with a boyish-faced squire beside her. 

As they sat, Sansa, the redhead, looked poised, calm. Maybe even bored, like she had other, more important work to do.

“I’ve flown many miles, Jon Snow,” Daenerys began, seizing the opportunity to speak first. “Tell me, have I come to accept your oath to me as the rightful ruler of the seven kingdoms?” 

A pause. “No.” 

“Oh,” Daenerys replied. “That is unfortunate.” 

“I’ve asked you here to form an alliance to help us fight the army of the dead.”

“The dead?” she asked, eyebrows raised. 

“Forgive me, but, do you think I’m a madman, or a liar?” Jon asked, looking at Tyrion. 

Daenerys turned to her hand. 

“I do not think you are either of those things,” Tyrion declared. 

“An army of dead men marches beyond the wall,” Jon explained, standing. “I cannot defeat them alone. If we don’t join together and fight them, together, they’ll be nothing left for you to rule over when they’ve finished with us.” 

Jon retook his seat and exchanged a look with Sansa. Dimly, he heard Ser Davos pick up the argument on his behalf. Tyrion sent a flurry of skeptical questions to his Hand in return. 

Displeased, Daenerys also fell quiet as their two most trusted advisors debated. 

She expected to enthrall Jon, the way she did most other men who crossed her path. Indeed, she’d been relying on it heavily. But his head turned in askance so often toward the red girl, she abandoned hope of turning it her way. 

Jon Snow didn’t reach out and hold Sansa’s hand, he didn’t touch her physically in any way at all. But the two Starks seemed always mindful of one another, as if an invisible cord she didn’t understand tied them together. Built over years, Daenerys mused, irritated. Too strong to sever with the fire of her dragons. 

Not that she could locate, for burning, an invisible bond to begin with. 

Her temper flared, but she remained still, the only evidence the flare of her nostrils, as if she could sniff out the source of their connection and tear it to shreds with her bare hands. 

She had no reason to be so upset, she’d only just met this pretender king and certainly wasn’t in love with him. But she fully expected that would be no hindrance for _him_ not to fall in love with _her._ As most men did. Or a bit later, if needed, but with no less devotion. She flicked her eyes to Ser Jorah. 

Ser Davos and Tyrion wound down on the suggestion she fly beyond the wall, and see the supposed Night King for herself. Now everyone looked to her, waited for her answer. 

Good. Just the way she liked it. 

She made them wait for her judgement, prolonging the moment. 

“I will fight for you,” Daenerys said finally, with a falsely generous smile, “when you bend the knee.” The smile turned smug. 

Jon didn’t immediately reply. 

“If you need my help to defeat this army of the dead-” Daenerys said the last part with distain, clearly lacking belief “-you’ll need to give something in return. I hope this meeting results in you affirming my claim as the rightful ruler of the seven kingdoms.” She enunciated the last part, slowly. 

_Any man who must say, I am the king, is no true king,_ Jon thought.

_Or Queen._

Sansa smiled only a little, but Jon knew it was the one she saved for dealing the death-blow when outmaneuvering her opponent. 

“Jon cannot affirm you as the rightful ruler of the seven kingdoms…” she stared, unflinchingly, into Daenerys’s eyes, “…because, _by right,_ you are not.” 

A heavy, tense silence filled the room. Tyrion narrowed his eyes and he titled his head, puzzled, as he tried to read her meaning. Ser Jorah stiffened, ready for a fight, though wary and weary. Theon stared, wide-eyed, slack-jawed. 

“Jon is the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lynna Stark, wed in secret after Rhaegar’s marriage to Elia was annulled.” Sansa’s voice rang clear in the hall. 

Daenerys looked at her Hand to stall, needing to process the information. 

“You can’t expect us to believe such a claim. Where is your proof?” Tyrion asked. 

Sansa turned to her once-husband. “Maester Maynard recorded it in his private diaries at the Citadel. Isn’t that right, Sam?” Sansa asked. 

“It is,” Sam agreed. 

“Our brother, Bran, has visions. He’s seen it.” Sansa was aware how ridiculous that sounded, but her discomfort softened when Bran spoke, looking directly at Daenerys and telling her things he couldn’t have possibly known, without his abilities. Through the astonishment on the Dragon Queen’s face, Sansa knew he’d hit his mark. 

“Lord Howland Reed was there at Jon’s birth. He also knows the truth about his Targaryen blood.” 

Tyrion allowed a small, impressed smile. “As now does everyone in this room.”

“Lord Reed is prepared to share this truth, should anything happen to Jon in the near future,” Sansa warned. 

Daenerys refused to acknowledge the red girl. She’d appeal to this king-in-the-north who seemed honorable, and was, after all, just a man, like any other. In the end, didn’t they all fall under her spell? Even the ones sent to kill her. 

“Is this true?” Daenerys asked, hoping for a protest from the northern “king” who spoke little up until now. 

Jon only nodded, once. 

Daenerys clenched her jaw, eyes blazing. Before she could stop herself, she slammed her hands onto the table, shooting to her feet. 

So quickly it was difficult to tell who drew first, Brienne and Ser Jorah held their swords at the ready. 

And Jon, Daenerys noticed, even more annoyed, leaned to position himself in front of the red girl. 

“I don’t want the Iron Throne,” Jon said, holding out both his hands for everyone to calm down. 

“Let’s all just _listen_ to one another before doing anything rash,” Tyrion cautioned, stiff and tense beside his queen. 

Tyrion sympathized. Hearing another invalidate her claim, a claim she clung to most of her life, built her whole life upon, couldn’t have been easy. But maybe it wasn’t the worst thing. Jon said he didn’t want the throne, and he trusted Jon as a man of his word. His Queen needed allies. Six kingdoms were better than none at all. And, if Daenerys really couldn’t have children, it might also put into place a plan for succession. 

Placated, Daenerys slowly retook her seat. 

“I won’t refute your claim. _If_ you help us defeat the army of the dead,” Jon said. “But I won’t bend the knee. The North will never again be a part of the seven kingdoms.” 

“And if I refuse?” Daenerys asked, eyebrows arched.

Jon paused, reluctant. “Then I’ll reveal the truth to everyone.” 

Tyrion let out a low chuckle. “Never forget what you are, right Jon? The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you.” 

Daenerys shot him a look. Tyrion quickly bowed his head. 

“I doubt that your secret will remain so, given the number of ears listening.” Daenerys drawled. 

Jon’s eyes flicked to Sansa and an understanding bloomed in Daenerys. She was right. He couldn’t keep the secret of his parentage and at the same time, reveal any romantic affection for the red one by his side. 

Why had this _Stark_ family turned together when hers tore apart? Her father, her brother, and now this, her… nephew. All, her enemies at worst, unusable at best. They all should be backing her, supporting her. She deserved their devotion, she deserved the throne. 

“If everyone finds out who I am, then it’s all the more powerful for me to support your claim,” Jon said. 

Well. That was more like it. 

Victory rose in Daenerys, but it was short-lived, hollow. She could have the Iron Throne, but only by the grace of this _king_ who didn’t want it. And it would cost her one of the seven kingdoms. And something else too… the failure to dominate the situation, the man… to bend him to her will, to bend his knee as she had all other men, stung. 

Silence descended once more. This time, Tyrion broke it. 

“Your Grace, maybe we could call a truce for the time being,” Tyrion reasoned. “You could fly north, beyond the wall, and see the army of the dead for yourself. If they are in fact marching toward us at this very moment, we will need to work together as Jon says. If not…” Tyrion trailed off. He hadn’t worked out the “if not” yet. He did his best thinking after a glass or two of wine. Why were the Northmen so bloody austere? His party had been welcomed with a bit of warm mead, but no ready pitcher of Dornish red graced the table for this meeting, as it would in King’s Landing. 

His Queen turned and Tyrion once again became the recipient of Daenerys’s displeased glower. 

Head high, Daenerys stood slowly, a move to conclude the meeting and dismiss them all. 

“I will consider your offer.” 

She said it to Jon, as if deigning it – or him - worthy of her time, though it was her own Hand who laid forth the final proposition. 

Jon bowed his head, in thanks. He had no need to play games or posture. 

Sansa hid a smile. 

#

“Marry me,” Jon breathed, laying on top of Sansa, watching her face as she caught her breath. On one side he propped himself up to avoid crushing her with his weight, on the other, he lifted her hand and thread his fingers through hers. 

“Jon,” Sansa gave a hitched laugh. “This isn’t really the time.” 

“I don’t want to fight what’s coming without knowing you’re mine. I don’t want to die without-”

“Shh…” Sansa laid her finger on his lips. 

“We _can_ win,” Jon swore, gently brushing her hand aside. 

He was no fool. Jon knew the odds were against them. He knew the magnitude of what they fought beyond the wall. But Daenerys had agreed to fly north to see the Night King for herself, and he believed they stood a chance. If she were moved enough to allow him to mine the dragonglass, if they could somehow convince Cersei to stand down and join the real war… Jon had made allies out of greater enemies. 

“Alright, King Jon,” Sansa teased. “We’re going to win. Then what?” 

“If we make it through, I’ll marry you again. Give you a proper wedding like Winterfell has never seen before. Fill you with many sons and daughters,” at those words he stroked her, intimately, and she threw her head back. 

“But first, maybe we’ll take a trip. Go south. We’ll have earned it.” 

“And what will we do in the south?” Sansa asked, stroking his dark hair. “Get warm?” 

_You know nothing, Jon Snow._

Old words echoed in Jon’s mind. But right then, he knew many, many things, and none of them modest. Several, he thought in his bed right there in Winterfell, only a few doors down from Sansa. Others ideas came recently, newly stirred by the dragon within. 

All of them indecent. All of them involving the writhing woman beneath him. 

“I can think of a few things,” Jon muttered, the handsome grin that charmed her so, spreading over his face. “But on second thought, why wait?” 

He kissed the soft, pale skin of her belly… lower, and lower, until he found what wanted. 

Sansa cried out loud enough to shatter any notions Jon had of keeping his birthright secret for very long.


End file.
